A/N: Sorry if the update seemed a while in coming (esp. compared to my last story) but it's busy times, so I'll most likely be updating every Fri/Sat just to give you guys a timeline.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I really really appreciate it. You guys rock my world ;)

Chapter 2

As Dean turned the wheel to access the gravel road that would take them to the crime scene, the flash of red and blue on his hand caught his attention. He glanced down at the jagged cut and spotty bruise and again tried to recall how he'd hurt it. The second he and Sam had hopped into the car, Dean had turned up the music loudly in a preemptive move against any further attack of questions from Sam, but that plan had backfired. Without Sam dousing him with concern, those questions had formed in Dean's own mind, and for the past 20 minutes he'd been mentally filing through his memories, trying to work out how he might have hurt his hand. He frowned and lifted his eyes back towards the road. Damn Sam and his paranoia; it was beginning to rub off on him. He'd probably just…hit in on the night table in his sleep…in a way that caused a circular pattern to crop up around his wrist. Right, that made sense.

Dean sighed, but it was instantly lost in the Deep Purple blaring from the speakers. He decided to tuck the worry away for now, draw it back only if he really had to. It was just a scratch, after all. Not exactly life-threatening.

"Up there," Sam said, raising his voice to be heard above the music. He was pointing to a turn where the road was more or less replaced by dirt and gravel. Just ahead of that was the opening to an old, carefully preserved track into the woods surrounding this town. The area was portioned off by police tape.

Dean turned off the road and parked the car. "Yep. That long yellow tape would tip me off too," he teased, leaning past Sam to scope out the area.

Sam rolled his eyes and hopped out of the car, quickly heading towards the crime scene.

Dean scrambled to catch up. "Whoa, wait up. Some of us weren't born with giraffe legs, you know."

Sam smirked and shot Dean a sidelong look. "No, just their brains."

Dean frowned playfully, but it deepened into a real one once he saw the splatters of blood covering the sandy track, and the five chalk marks tracing the positions that the bodies had been found in. He ducked under the yellow tape and crouched down next to them, tilting his head to the side as he observed the chalk outlines. Small frown still knitting his brow, he reached out and, hand hovering in the air so not to disturb the area, traced the shapes.

Sam too ducked under the tape. "Notice something?" he asked.

Dean drew back his hand, his eyes continuing the roam over the chalk outlines. "Maybe," he mused. He stood back up and slowly walked around the crime scene, eyes focused, discerning.

Sam looked from his brother's calculating gaze to the area in front of them. According to the outlines, the five victims had been dumped a few feet away from each other. Though drops of blood splattered the whole area.

"Look at this," Dean said. Sam looked up. Dean was pointing to the blood that Sam had been observing just a second ago. "See that?" he prodded, looking up at Sam with raised eyebrows when Sam didn't answer.

"…Uh. Yeah," Sam responded, frowning at Dean.

Dean continued to stare at Sam, waiting for him to grasp at the significance of the bloodstains. Sam glanced back at them and shrugged, not knowing what to say. "Deaths are messy."

Dean sighed and threw up his hands. "Man, how you passed four years of college. The article said only two were found all cut up, right? The other three had no obvious sign of injury. But look." He pointed to the blood splattered ground again. "There's blood all over the place. It's like a Taratino flick."

Sam's head whipped back to the scene. Dean was right! In each chalk outline, blood splattered and stained the sandy ground and in three of the outlines, the dried rivers extended out to frame the chalked area in red circles.

"Huh," Sam said, impressed by his brother's deductive skills. He glanced over at Dean, a smile tugging at his lips.

Dean caught the look and sighed dramatically, a scowl hijacking his features. "It's rude to stare. Go be proud of some little orphan somewhere who grew up to end world hunger, or something."

Sam grinned. "What?" he said innocently. "I can't be impressed by my own brother?"

Dean drew back his head a little. "You're creeping me out dude," he said in a deadpan voice.

Sam scoffed. Trust Dean to find genuine compliments unsettling. "No, seriously," he said, pushing the topic partly because it seemed to annoy Dean, but mostly because he meant it. "You're good at this whole CSI part of what we do. Maybe after it's all over you can get into forensic science or something."

Dean didn't respond for a second. "Yeah, when it's over," he mumbled, his voiced weighed with a dry sarcasm. Sam glanced over at Dean and saw that his playful expression had clouded over. His face looked dark, his eyes distant. Sam opened his mouth to say something, realizing he'd pushed into sensitive terrain. They hadn't yet really discussed what Dean had burst out back in Chicago. Neither knew what else there was to say. So they'd locked away that conversation – ignored it, pretending the ramifications didn't exist. But the issues it had brought out were obviously still there, simmering close to the surface.

Before Sam could say anything though, his ears prickled with the sound of…whispering. Both he and Dean instinctively whipped around. Towards the woods. Towards the voices. If you could call them that.

Traveling through rustling leaves floated a cacophony of soft whispers – overlapping, indistinguishable, unintelligible. The whispering floated in the breeze, danced around the brothers, tickled their ears. Beckoned them with wordless whispers, willing them to enter the forest. And though both had quieted their breath, listening intently, trying to work out what was being said, neither could make any sense of it. It wasn't English, or Latin, or something else even vaguely familiar. It wasn't anything. But somehow both knew that the voices were calling them forward.

And then, with a collective breath, the whispers disappeared.

Dean looked over at Sam, who returned his gaze with wide eyes.

"Okay, definitely something supernatural," Sam mumbled.

Dean reached into his bag and pulled out a gun, tossing it to Sam before retrieving one for himself. "Ready to follow the siren call?" Dean held out his gun and cautiously began moving into the forest.

Sam followed, eyes alert, taking in the tress and shrubbery surrounding them with bated breath. "Let's just hope it doesn't lead us to our demise," Sam muttered.

"Maybe we'll find a group of hot chicks clad in togas instead," Dean whispered, grinning at the thought.

"That was the point, Dean," Sam reproached. "In the story the deadly siren call was a from a group of…" Sam sighed. "Never mind."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam and smirked. "You're so easy," he said, shaking his head and turning back around.

Sam hadn't realized just how thick these woods were. They'd been walking for barely five minutes at a slow, cautious pace, but already the trees had grown so thick – their roots so tangled, their branches so thick and full – that barely any light illuminated Sam and Dean's path. The only indication that it was still day was the sunlight shooting through the gaps in the trees. Spots of it here and there that had managed to escape the wood's leafy fortress.

Dean stopped suddenly, almost causing Sam to bump into him. He lowered his gun and rubbed his shoulder, rotating it. "Why would the hot toga chicks invite us in here if they're too shy to show their faces," Dean complained. "If I wanted a nature tour I'd stay up watching National Geographic with you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not toga chicks, Dean. Bad, scary killers. Or killer."

"Or demon. Or spirit. Or possessed squirrel," Dean muttered. He looked around for second. Then took a deep breath and, to Sam's complete shock, yelled out as loud as his lungs allowed. "Psychopathic, possessed squirrel guy, you rang!"

Sam grabbed Dean's arm roughly. "What are you doing, Dean?" he asked angrily, eyes still wide with shock.

"Ger' off me," Dean responded, frowning at Sam's grip and wringing his arm away.

Sam let go but stood there glaring at Dean, unable to believe that Dean had just did that. Was he trying to get them killed!

"Dude, chill, before you have a stroke or something," Dean said flatly. "You want to face this thing here, close to the path, guns still in our hands? Or do you want to let it lure us deeper into his turf? I choose the first option, but hey you're the college educated one, you tell me."

Sam just shook his head. He had to begrudgingly admit that Dean was probably right. But it was still a reckless – stupid – move. What they really should be doing was getting out of there and working out what they were up against before recklessly chasing after it.

Dean watched Sam hesitate and let a blank look slide onto his face. He shrugged. "Okay, you're the future lawyer. The brains in this family, right? You know best." He turned and strode deeper into the forest.

Sam frowned, mouth struggling to form a response. "Dean!" he yelled out, annoyed and confused, quickly following after him. "What's your problem?" he asked angrily, finally catching up with Dean, who continued to march resolutely ahead, gun drawn, eyes alert.

"Well, sometimes my hair doesn't always sit the way it's s'posed to…"

Sam sighed, running a hand through his own hair in frustration. "Is it because of what I said earlier?" Sam asked, ignoring Dean's attempts to shrug off the subject. "About what you'll do after this is all over?"

Dean just grinned and continued walking ahead, deeper into the woods. "You read too much into things, Sammy. It's something to do with that whole New Age sensitive thing you got going on. But word of advice? Chicks may dig that. Us guys, we don't."

"Dean," Sam said in growing frustration.

"Sam," Dean mimicked, walking yet deeper into the darkening woods.

"Look, I know you don't like what I have to say about all this. But Dean," Sam implored, "getting a chance to live a normal life after we find mom's killer is a good thing. For both of us," Sam added, watching Dean clench his jaw and shut his eyes momentarily.

"Do you really think this is the time or place, Sammy? Airing our dirty laundry to the whispering sirens and whatever the hell else is here?" Dean finally said.

Sam laughed humorlessly. "Why not," he said. "A dark wood possessed by evil seems like the perfect place for this conversation."

Dean shot Sam a look before stubbornly continuing to ignore him.

Sam was growing more frustrated. God, Dean could be stubborn. If he just talked things through, and listened to people, he might see that a life existed beyond all this. All this death and danger.

"There'll always be things to hunt, Sammy," Dean finally said. "People to save. You'd really let go of that responsibility?"

"There are human monsters too, Dean," Sam said quietly. "And you fight them in courtrooms. Without flamethrowers."

Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam caught the look and it only fueled his frustration. "Dean, I don't understand why you won't even contemplate a normal life after all this! Why not just try it before dismissing it so fast."

Dean stopped suddenly and whipped around, facing Sam, a shadow passing over his eyes. "Normal life? I'm dead! Buried with a grave marker and all! Remember that? And, legally, a suspected murderer! I did all that to help out one of your college pals, Sam, so tell me, how can I do the white picket fence and community fundraiser thing when for all intents and purposes I don't even exist. Huh?"

The anger Sam had been feeling suddenly evaporated. "Dean…" Sam said, voice softening, and eyes along with it.

But he was cut off by a harsh laugh that ripped through the forest and into their conversation. Sam and Dean whipped around, guns drawn.

But the laugh faded and no one came out of the thick brush to claim it. Dean slowly turned back to Sam, but on seeing what was behind Sam's shoulder, his eyes widened and he paled a little. Sam frowned at Dean's expression, before realizing he was staring at something over his shoulder. Sam quickly whipped around, and gasped, stumbling back a bit.

Staring at them from a large, tangled tree trunk was a giant symbol. Painted in blood. Thick red drops dripped down the symbol and stained the bark red.

"Wow," Sam breathed, after taking a second to compose himself.

"That about sums it up," Dean muttered, taking in the image before them.

"Is that the same symbol that was found on the bodies?" Sam asked.

Dean titled his head, looking it up at down. Jesus, that was a big mark. "No," he finally answered. "They're different."

"How so?"

"Well," Dean scrunched his face and scratched his head. "The other one was more…" he made a motion with his hands "…curvy." Dean nodded, satisfied with his explanation.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, thanks."

Dean just shrugged. "Hey, you got Dad's journal?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so," Sam said, brining his canvas bag forward on his shoulder and rummaging through it for a second.

"Here," he said, pulling out the well-worn book. "You recognize it?"

"I think so," Dean said absently, flipping through the pages. "Uh huh!" He turned the book around to show Sam. On one of the pages near the back, John had sketched a symbol that was an exact – if smaller – replica of the one dripping in front of them.

Sam smiled. "Looks like dad was prepared for anything."

Dean turned the journal back around and quickly read the notes their dad had scrawled beneath the drawing. "Okay, so apparently it's the symbol that a certain creature of Aztec descent leaves after his ritual kills – uses the blood of his victims." He looked up at Sam and shrugged nonchalantly. "They're rare, dad writes that he hoped most of them had died out by the Industrial boom – harder to get followers when people turn to technology to answer their prayers instead of crazy god-wannabes."

"But this one has obviously worked out that he can just kidnap his followers," Sam nodded.

"Lure them into the woods with the promise of beautiful ladies," Dean grinned. "I like his style."

Sam scoffed in disapproval. "Dean, there are no girls. The whispers were coming from the creature." He shook his head. "Even on the hunt, one thing on your mind."

Dean chuckled, chucking the journal back to Sam. "Well at least we know it's death-friendly. These things are corporeal. Bullets, flamethrowers…a good pounding…anything should do the trick." He checked his gun's cartridge and grabbed some more bullets from his pocket, sliding them into the empty rounds.

"Let's get this over with."

"Wait, Dean," Sam said. He looked back over at the symbol with a troubled frown, and ran a hand through his hair as he looked back from where they'd come from.

"What?" Dean prodded.

Sam scrunched up his face in concentration. "Something's not right," he mumbled. Off of Dean's questioning look, Sam elaborated. "Only two of the bodies were found…you know…bloodied. The others had no visible injuries. Why would this creature only sacrifice two of his victims. That doesn't fit this thing's MO. And," Sam quickly continued when he saw Dean open his mouth to cut in, "why was a different symbol found on those bodies. A symbol that faded after a few hours of being found. Something's not right here, Dean."

Dean sighed and looked back at the giant symbol absently. "Trust you to complicate things, Sammy. Maybe it's a two creature killers for the price of one deal, I don't know." Dean suddenly straightened up and frowned, his eyes locked on the symbol.

"Dean?" Sam asked, looking from his brother's discerning gaze to the red tree trunk.

Dean either didn't hear Sam or was ignoring him. He stepped up closer to the mark, leaning his head forward to peer at it more closely. Suddenly he reached out and pressed his palm against the glistening red drops.

"Dean!" Sam said, aghast. "What are you doing?"

Dean pulled his hand away and looked at it. Grinning in satisfaction, he held it out for Sam to see. There was nothing on his palm. Just the faint outline of bark from having pressed against it. No red. No blood.

Sam's mouth slid open and he walked up to Dean, pulling his hand forwards to take a second look. "That's impossible."

"It isn't real," Dean shrugged. "The whole thing's an illusion."

Sam stared at Dean, then to the tree, then back at Dean. He tentatively reached out and brushed his fingertips against the symbol. When he pulled away, they too were clean.

"How…" he began to ask Dean, trailing off as he shook his head.

Dean's self-satisfied grin widened. He raised his index finger and tapped his head. "These kind of smarts they don't teach you in Stanford. Pay close attention, young Skywalker, and you might learn something."

Sam scoffed. "Uh huh."

Dean pointed to the base of the tree. "Look. The blood is doing that whole oozing and dripping thing, yet…" He fanned out his hand like a magician's assistant revealing a trick. "There's no puddle. The blood just oozes and drips out of existence. See, the fading thing does fit this dude's MO after all."

Sam leant in closer to the tree, following one of the droplets as it dripped down the trunk and into…oblivion. It never hit the ground beneath.

"I got the brains and the eyesight," Dean smirked. He then tilted his head, thinking. "And the looks," he added. "Boy, do you have a bone to pick with the gene pool, or what."

Sam wasn't really paying attention to him, though. His forehead was scrunched up and he was looking around them. "I think we should get out of here, Dean," he finally said, looking at his brother earnestly.

"Why?" Dean asked blankly, miffed that his insult had passed unnoticed. "We're already here, might as well hunt down this bitch. If we're quick, we might get back in time to hit the bar before the red-headed chick's shift ends."

Sam raised his eyebrows and shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. "You serious? Dean, this isn't like shopping for groceries – we don't just chase after something dangerous because we're in the area. We need to go and figure out what we're dealing with – what the other symbol means, why they're all fading…You know, the whole be prepared thing."

Dean smiled playfully. "Ah, Sam," he said in mock affection, "you worry too much. Seriously man, botox is expensive – don't want to be frowning so much." He punched Sam in the arm.

But suddenly Sam wasn't there anymore. He was on that street – route 666. He was bending by the car, he was clutching the dangling door. He was feeling for his brother's pulse. He was crying out in horror when no rhythm beat against his fingers. He was hearing a laugh behind him. He was whipping around just in time to see a flash of short, blonde hair. And then he was hearing someone shouting his name and he was opening his eyes.

Sam found himself on the ground, his fingers digging into the dirt and leaves, snapping small twigs as he breathed in deeply and tried to get his heart rate back under control.

"Sam!"

Sam swallowed and forced himself off the ground and into a sitting position, his eyes traveling to the person in front of him. He sprung back with a strangled gasp as Meg smiled back at him. But he blinked and she was gone, replaced by Dean, who was crouching in front of Sam with wide, startled eyes.

"Hey," he said, clutching Sam's shoulder tightly, trying to calm him. "You okay, man?"

Sam stared at his brother uncomprehendingly for a moment before taking in a shuddering breath and letting his sweat-drenched head drop into his open palm. "Yeah," he said.

Dean watched him for a moment. "Don't do that again!" he finally yelled. Sam looked up at Dean with a frown. "I shove you and you collapse?" Dean continued. "Jesus, I'm never going to be able to kick your ass again. Ever."

Despite Dean's harsh tone, Sam noted how pale his face was and the fear retracting in his eyes. He smiled gently, placatingly. "Don't worry, Popeye, you can still eat your spinach. It wasn't you, it was…that dream again…" he trailed off. He could still feel the cold metal of the door on his hands, could still feel Dean's cold flesh on his fingertips. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, trying to shake the image.

Dean's eyes were sparking with a battle between concern and confusion. "That dream about something happening on Route 666 that never happened? You had that dream now, in a bunch of creature-infested woods, in the middle of the day?" Dean absently scratched at his head.

Sam shrugged, as baffled as Dean. But he gasped when he looked up at his brother, the colour draining from his cheeks. "Dean," he said shakily, pointing to the place Dean had been scratching.

"What?" Dean's self-consciously touched area, and frowned in surprise when he felt something warm and sticky greet his fingers. He pulled them back to find them coated in blood. He looked up at Sam in shock.

Sam blinked rapidly, dread winding up in his chest. On Dean's forehead sat a small crisscross of web-shaped cuts – as if he'd hit in against a windshield. They weren't large or deep. But that wasn't what concerned Sam. This was the second time he'd experienced this 'dream', and the second time a shadow-injury had followed. And, judging from the way Dean was dabbing his head and then staring at his red fingers in confusion, Dean also grasped the connection. And didn't like it.

"I think we should go now," Sam said bluntly. They had to get away from this place and work out what was going on. Before Sam's dream manifested into something worse.

Dean nodded, eyes still a bit wide from the shock of seeing his brother collapse, and then finding another mysterious injury cropping up without his knowledge. "You don't have to tell me twice," he said, helping Sam up off the ground.

Dean then cocked his head. "Well, actually you did," he corrected. "But -"

His sentence was cut short as an invisible force plowed into him and he was flung backwards.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, before he too found himself flying through the air.

Dean landed in an ungainly heap, his head falling just short of a large, jagged rock. He forced himself up, coughing and sucking in deeply, winded from the fall. He looked over at the rock that had almost cracked open his skull. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, springing off the leafy ground and brushing himself down, annoyed by the turn this hunt was taking. "Why do I always gotta be flying through the air," me muttered, annoyed.

Dean looked up to see if Sam was okay, and found him bent over something on the ground, staring at it intently. "What are you doing all the way over there?" Dean called.

Sam looked over at his brother. "I found something," he said.

Dean jogged over, looking down to see what Sam found so intriguing. Sam had brushed away a clump of dirt and leaves, revealing a rusted mental plaque beneath. Dean shoved away some more of the leaves with his foot. Inscribed on the plaque in Latin was a single word. "Believe," Dean read, frowning. He looked over at Sam. "And what? You'll fly? You'll touch the sky?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he answered absently, missing Dean's reference. "But why's it written in Latin. Wasn't this creature a descendent from the Aztecs?"

"Does this look like it's going to be one of those hunts that makes sense?" Dean answered. "What happened to good old vengeful spirits and beheading horseman. You know, the nice and simple hauntings. Not all this fancy stuff."

"You're starting to sound your age, Grandpa," Sam said, amused.

"How'd you find the plaque anyway," he asked, frowning at Sam and choosing not to respond to the insult.

"I kind of…landed on it. When we were flung back."

"Ouch," Dean smirked. He quickly turned around, looking back towards where he had landed. "I wonder what I got," he said, almost excitedly, hurrying to check.

Sam scoffed. "From Grandpa to five year old," he muttered under his breath, following.

Dean was using his foot to move aside the leaves and dirt, but his efforts revealed nothing.

Sam looked at him skeptically. "I can't believe you look disappointed."

Dean shrugged. But before he could respond, both froze as the brush beside them began to rustle, they slowly looked over, each instinctively taking a step back and drawing their guns forward. But, to their surprise, nothing jumped out at them from behind the leafy bush – instead, it parted to reveal an opening. That rock that Dean had almost hit his head on wasn't a rock at all, it was part of a hidden cave whose opening was now beckoning them.

Both blinked at the opening for a second, before simultaneously turning to look at each other.

"Yeah," Dean said sarcastically. "We're just going to stroll right on in. We didn't even say Open Sesame."

A scream suddenly rang out of the cave and tore through the air – young, terrified, broken – making the brother's jump.

Dean sighed and rubbed his head, before accidentally grazing his cut and quickly pulling away.

Sam was peering into the cave, trying to see something beyond the blanket of shadows. He looked back at Dean. "It could be a trap," Sam said. "It probably is trap." Watching Dean carefully, he then voiced what Dean was thinking. "But it might not be," he sighed.

Dean shrugged, not knowing what else to do. "I'm going in," he said, looking like it was the last thing he wanted to do. But Sam also noticed the determination beginning to override his uncertainty – to harden his face and his eyes.

"Dean, it lures people to it. The whispers…now the scream. It's a trap."

"It lures people in," Dean repeated. "As in, that could be a lured in girl. I can't just leave her there, Sam."

Sam shook his head incredulously, the dread again beginning to prickle his chest. "Dean, it's a trap. Trust me, this doesn't feel right."

Dean sighed impatiently. "Yes, okay! It probably is a trap. But you really expect me to take that chance, Sammy?"

Sam looked around restlessly, his foot tapping against the ground in frustration. "I…no, of course not. But, I want us to know what we're up against here before we just walk right into its home. Just…Let's just…I want to stop and think for a second. Dean, you're too hungry for the hunt right now."

Dean's eyes widened at that last comment. What was that supposed to mean? He stepped up to Sam, his face hardening. "Life doesn't always give you want you want, Sam."

Shocked, Sam let his frustration wash over so that his face, too, hardened. "Believe me, I know," he spat back.

Dean stared at Sam for a second before shaking his head and waving Sam off angrily. "I'm going in," he said tightly. "You stay here. No use both of us being 'lured' in. If I'm not back in 15…"

"What?" Sam prodded, his incredulity and frustration tightening his own voice.

"Well, then you were right and it was trap," Dean grinned sardonically, heading into the cave. Though he popped back out a second later, and quickly handed Sam some spare bullet cartridges. "Be careful," he warned, pointing a finger at Sam. "I mean it."

Sam watched Dean until his back disappeared into the dark cave, and listened until his footsteps retreated out of echoing range. He sighed, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, and lent back against the rocky side of the opening. He kept his eyes and ears peeled.

Since leaving Chicago, all they'd been doing was hunting and driving and more hunting. The physical strain of it was beginning to eat at his stamina, and the emotional strain of carrying around the weight of what happened in Chicago was arguably worse. He'd seen the end of all this – it was there in front of him, there with his dad. But they'd let it go – let him go. And now they were just filling time until they could get into the real fight – the one that sparked Sam's drive and kept him going. The one that would let him avenge Jessica's death.

"Sam!"

Sam sprung up from his slumped position, whipping around to face the cave.

"Sam!"

"Dean!" Sam yelled into the cave, just before he heard a gunshot and the sound of rocks collapsing. And then deathly silence.

Face growing pale, eyes widening, Sam ran into the dark cave.